Chapter 12
Chapter 12
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Translator: Ebonarch
Chapter: 012
Chapter Title: Brain
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Westguard Fortress also had a residential district for nobles.
They were aristocrats who had committed crimes in the capital Aslama and been exiled, or those ousted from power struggles.
Even in political infighting, they were relatives just one step removed, making execution awkward. After all, you couldn't just kill your cousin's husband, someone you'd played with as a child.
Such people often returned to the capital after a few years.
Officially a confinement facility, but the remote environment eliminated escape risks, granting them freedom of movement. They even threw parties among themselves or ventured out hunting.
The only thing that truly plagued them was boredom.
Brad capitalized on this.
—If you ever have the time, I'd appreciate your advice on the fortress's economy.
—Would you be willing to teach literacy and arithmetic to the servants?
—Please give lectures on basic tactics to the junior officers.
Screening them through direct meetings was straightforward. As mostly political offenders, they made impeccable teaching resources.
And they doubled as Westguard's unofficial advisory staff.
Late in the afternoon, a modest dinner was held in their residential area.
"I've heard the stories. You must have had it rough."
"That infamous Noxen Prison had everyone worried."
"I'm embarrassed. I just took a nice month-long vacation."
"Hahaha. Indeed, that's Sir Brad Cahill for you. Over here, if you please."
Baron Morton, who had once managed court ceremonies, pulled out a chair.
"Straight back to work upon your return. That young lord from the main family must be no ordinary fellow."
"Word is he's a fresh academy graduate."
A few glanced slyly at Brad as they broached the topic. Nothing sparked conversation quite like gossiping about someone else.
Baron Salleo, who had run a merchant company in the capital, lowered his voice.
"I heard the vice commander fell in battle. Can't be anything but serious."
"This fortress stands at the empire's foremost frontier, always exposed to danger. But as a knight of Brennenton, I will fulfill my duties without faltering. Rest assured on that point."
Brad brushed it off with a boilerplate response.
"Ahem, it's poor manners to meddle in another house's territory. Let's drop it."
A quick-witted guest changed the subject, earning a nod from Brad.
"Truth be told, I need your counsel. Ominous signs are cropping up across the northern regions. I suspect it may signal a massive orc incursion southward..."
The nobles listened to Brad's briefing with keen interest.
"Did you say a massive orc advance right now?"
"That's my inference based on the intelligence gathered."
Brad handed over a ledger.
"These are the skirmish reports from the past three months. As you'll see, clashes with Kaminity lands are steadily declining, while encounters with orcs are on the rise."
"I see. A three-month sample is a bit limited, though."
"Hm, the numbers show a clear uptrend, and the skirmish locations..."
"Are inching closer to the fortress."
"Could it be a Wave?"
"Come now, that's overstating it."
Those recalling the nightmare from thirty years ago scolded the one who mentioned it. But when Brad produced another ledger, the mood shifted abruptly.
"This is the reconnaissance report from a few hours ago. Three nearby native tribes within a 100km radius came under orc attack."
"All at once?"
"Coordinated strikes at nearly the same time. I take back what I said about the sample size."
Baron Creep Yansel stroked his chin.
He had been caught in a scandal while serving in the capital guard division and insisted he'd been pushed out of the power game, but his well-groomed appearance undermined the claim.
"Battles with orcs are no worry, but the scale is the issue."
"So reinforcements are what's needed?"
"Even with the third young lord's requests, the main family's response has been lukewarm, likely due to insufficient intelligence."
"Succession struggles must be clouding the reports' credibility."
"Tch. Interpreting intel through politics is tricky."
"And then there's the funding tangle."
Obviously, bolstering troops devoured money and time. Compounded by the main family's heir competition, it was a thorny political mess.
"Planning to report directly to the capital?"
"Hardly. I'm a knight of Brennenton. I have no intention of undermining the chain of command."
"Quite right. That's the proper order."
"I keep saying it: the commander is too fine a talent to rot in this backwater."
"Heh heh heh. Agreed. The corrupt capital elites need reminding who brings them their peace."
A vein twitched faintly on Brad's forehead before subsiding.
'Quit dancing around and give me advice already, you idle lot.'
Outwardly, he showed no irritation. As capital nobles, they were typically well-educated elites, and their collective wisdom never disappointed.
"I'm grateful for the generous assessment, but a knight's place is the battlefield. As a humble rural knight striving to do his duty, I humbly ask you to share a fraction of your erudition."
He'd tried phrasing 'Cut the chit-chat and get to the point' with some elegance.
"Well put. Your words carry true refinement."
"Looks like our counsel bore fruit."
"Heh heh heh. The tea tastes especially fine today."
After patiently waiting, the pleased advisors began their counsel.
"Arun, was it? Don't underestimate the scion of Brennenton, the great northern lord."
"Exactly. A cornered fledgling will claw for any breakout."
"..."
Brad listened silently without reaction.
"His options are obvious, aren't they?"
"Conveniently, we just touched on it."
Brad fixed his gaze on Baron Morton, the former court ceremony overseer.
"You can't mean reporting straight to Aslavama? Bypassing the chain would only breed more chaos."
"Chaos is a cornered man's last shot."
Baron Serjo, who had managed Aslavama's roads, shrugged.
"Of course, no guarantees it'll go as planned."
"Heh heh heh."
"Hee hee hee."
Brad pondered briefly.
'Not bad. Either way, it won't interfere with my work.'
If Arun notified the capital of the Wave, he'd shoulder the blame. The resulting pressure on the main family would work in Brad's favor too. The impasse suddenly felt resolvable.
"With orc numbers swelling, it'll soon turn into full-scale war."
"The knight order's strength leaves much to be desired."
"Hm? Disparaging northern cavalry in front of Sir Brad?"
"Ah, that's not what I—"
The fireplace crackled, spitting embers.
Whoever ended up cornered and thrown into the fray, they spectated like chess grandmasters. Business chatter followed suit.
"With the commander back, he'll summon the family merchant caravan again."
"Heh heh heh. Normalized trade means no more skimping on liquor."
"Perfect timing—my wine's run dry."
Baron Morton clapped, and a native hireling brought drinks.
"The last of the Dalmatian brandy."
"Oooh. Dalmatian has that crisp finish."
The worldly detachment of these lifelong power players around the periphery was hardly amusing. Yet their broad, sharp insights suggested this wasn't their endgame.
"Need any more advice?"
"No, thank you. I've heard invaluable wisdom."
"Wisdom? We're the ones grateful you indulged our prattle."
Brad shook his head with a smile.
"Thanks to you, my path is clear. I'll handle the refugees and gather more intel."
"Indeed. Let the reckless pup do as he will."
"Still, prepare a separate report. Even capital investigators won't ignore field reports."
"No need to overemphasize. Let them judge."
"Heh heh heh. We could always inflate the casualties a bit. They won't trek to some valley to verify orc kills versus natural deaths."
"Within sampling error, sure."
"Here's the plan: bring the data. We'll draft a fitting report."
Baron Creep surveyed the room and shrugged.
"We're not total parasites; least we can do."
"Hee hee hee. Count me in. Beats the boredom."
"You will? My thanks."
Brad rose and bowed deeply.
"I'll continue striving to improve your comforts."
"Heh heh heh."
The nobles stood one by one in his wake.
"A toast, everyone. Sir Brad, you're deploying tomorrow?"
"One bottle of brandy won't hurt."
"Huhu. As expected. To Sir Brad Cahill's victory."
"Hahaha. To the north's hero."
A touch embarrassing, but genuine goodwill. He smiled, raising his glass. Even in the abyss, the unflappable maintained courtesy, preserving their dignity.
The chilly night air mingled with the fireplace's crackling logs.
Then a thought struck him.
'No law says orcs target only Westguard.'
The north held many outposts. The west was run by House Hasseldorf at Springgarden Fortress, the center by Brennenton at Westguard, and the northeast by House Kaminity at Northguard.
'If an alliance were possible...'
Frequent border clashes aside, humans didn't eat humans, at least.
The stone cairn at the Northguard border flashed in his mind.
'Need to find someone with ties to House Kaminity.'
Finding hope in despair was human will incarnate. Crisis as opportunity meant unity against common threats.
With that, Brad sank deeper into the sofa.
Closing his eyes ushered in true rest.
Black smoke rose from what had been a battlefield.
No signs of life stirred amid the ruined palisades. A half-burnt flag fluttered, bearing a bear rearing on hind legs in roar—the mark of a Northguard outpost.
Where the red sunset fell was hell itself. Corpses piled like mountains, spilled blood congealed in pools.
Thud. Slice, slice.
What had been a human arm tumbled across the ground.
Orcs slathered in gore diced the bodies into manageable chunks. The long queue behind them hardly evoked mindless monsters losing reason at the sight of food.
"Grrr, grrruk."
"Grrruk. Kek. Can't wait any longer."
One impatient orc warrior broke from the line.
Crack.
Its head shattered, ending its life.
"Krrruk. Disobey, and I'll eat you."
Emerging next was an elite orc a head taller than the rest. He kicked the former warrior's corpse toward the pile.
"Grrruk, guk."
The stronger message than words restored order to the disrupted queue.
"Krek, krrruk. I'll take that head."
The elite orc seized the neck of the enemy knight who had resisted to the end. Then he strode off.
Splash, splash.
He soon reached the largest nearby tent.
Glancing around, he snatched up a longspear, deftly impaled the head on it, and planted it at the entrance before entering.
A quick scan revealed a bed.
"Kruk. Softer than straw."
Once human-owned, now his.
Clank, thud, clunk.
Armor shed from his body, exposing green skin scarred head to toe. Crusted red was human blood; blue, his own.
A sound came from outside the tent.
"Guruk, chief. Coming in."
"Krek, krek. Brought water."
Thud.
Four orcs grunted as they set down a massive water tub.
"Guruk, little chiefs are coming."
"Grrruk, bringing food too. Females went for prime meat."
"......"
Splash.
The elite orc plunged into the tub without a word, dunking his head under.
Bubble, bubble.
Bloated red and blue filth rose with the stench, floating on the surface. Time passed, dissolving it into a murky purple haze.
"Puhaaa."
Moments later, he surfaced, gasping, and leaned against the tub.
How much time passed?
The warriors' grumbles and the sloppy feasting on spoils faded away.
The elite orc chieftain opened his closed eyes.
Splashhh.
Rising, tainted water streamed down his scars.
He rummaged nearby, finding drawers that fit his legs decently—the original owner had been burly. As he tossed his damp armor into the tub, footsteps approached again.
"Kruk, krrruk. Brought dinner."
Bulky orcs entered the tent.
Bloody meat slabs thudded onto the table. Other items followed.
"Kruk, the ordered item. Found it."
Thud, roll, roll, roll.
A massive bearskin unfurled. Its yellowish inside bore markings from Northguard to Westguard and Springgarden—clearly a human map.
Elite orc chieftain Georgrg grabbed a hunk of meat.
"Kruk. Eat first, then start."